LifeSpan of a Memory
by FemmeDraconis
Summary: If it had been lighter outside, her face would have appeared paler than the new moon. But ensconced in the night as they were, she looked strangely shadowy; like the things we are all afraid of in the dark." [RHr]


Author's Notes: **1 **– This is a one-shot. It was also my first R/H story, and I hope that I was true to the characters. I also hope that it's not too confusing, because I left some things up to the imagination, although hopefully most people will understand what happened. It has also been edited; hopefully it's better than before. **2** – Don't be thwarted by the fact that things might seem a bit out of canon; just keep reading, hopefully it should be rewarding.

Enjoy.

_Life Span of a Memory_

* * *

It was sunny out.

Hogwarts Lake rippled and receded, rippled and receded in a calm monotony, which instead of droning on, massaged the senses. The massive creature that was their resident octopus, rose into the air suddenly, and went down again in a thunderous splash of water and air and bubbles. When silence was restored, the only sound to be heard was the laughing of a slim brown-haired girl and her redheaded counterpart.

Ron scowled and cursed the octopus for spraying him.

In between muttering promises of retribution and tugging at his dripping robes, he glared at Hermione.

"I told you that you shouldn't have gone so close to the water." She took his arm and dragged him over to a sizeable boulder that was closer to the castle and drenched in sunlight. Although she tried to keep her eyes steadily ahead, Hermione could not resist taking a few peeks behind her. She snorted at his sopping hair and turned forward when he shot her a black look.

"Sorry," she mumbled, a smile still playing on her lips.

Ron fought against a grin.

"You should be."

At last they reached their destination. Hermione sat him down and took out her wand. She waved it around with a few complicated twists of the wrist, a sharp jab, and muttered a spell. Ron felt his robes beginning to dry and smiled.

"Thanks."  
She pushed her bushy hair behind her ear. "No matter; just be more careful next time."  
Ron's eyes widened. "_Careful_? That abomination…!"  
Hermione began laughing once more. "Fine then. Don't worry about care; just do as I say."

Ron sulked a little, and Hermione pulled him down so that he could rest in her lap. She smiled placidly and closed her eyes, playing with his tangled hair that was still a little damp. He too closed his eyes and enjoyed the moment.

So still and quiet was this little occasion of theirs…Hermione's deft fingers running around his scalp in an _unbelievably_ hypnotizing pattern. He could feel her warmth through the jeans she wore under her robes. He smiled. Hermione smelled like apples and soap, with the familiar, underlying smell of the old books she constantly pored over. Her fragrance wafted through the air, even without a strong breeze, as if her scent was the scent of the earth.

He felt consumed in her, consumed _by_ her. She was everything in that moment, and in his world there was no one else and would never be. He would love her forever because…because if nothing else, he had chosen to. Although a part of his mind wondered how much of a choice it really was, if she was always the only option.

Ron opened his eyes languidly.  
A lazy looking bird swooped over and around them; spiraling downward and breaking upward through the clouds; it was not the normal pattern of any bird Ron knew of. Though it surprised many people, he knew of most birds, most of the magical ones and a few of the "normal" ones, due to Hermione's tutelage. And he'd read about Thestrals, but had never seen one – or had he? Because, of course, he needed to see someone die first.

"Ron," said Hermione, continuously kneading his scalp.  
"Hmm?" he rumbled distractedly, still watching the bird. Ah, recognition! He smiled to himself. That was not a bird. It was Harry.  
"Who do you love, Ron?" asked Hermione.

He shifted in Hermione's lap, his lips quirked in amusement.

"Want to venture a guess?" he asked.  
Hermione smiled gently. "I'm serious!" she exclaimed, and he sighed gustily as if it was costing him everything to reveal his great secret.  
"You, of course."

Harry darted closer, and then farther away. Hermione manipulated his scalp some more and fell silent. Time passed. The sun seemed brighter and the trees more vibrant when she spoke again.

"Ron?" she asked again, looking down on him.  
"Hermione," Ron stated in monotone. But she didn't laugh.  
"Who do you love more?" she asked. Her voice was oddly thick, her eyes glossy.

Ron sat up, staggered by the sudden change. What had gone wrong in the span of just a few seconds?

"Hermione, are you all right?" he questioned.  
"Please!" she cried. Her hands balled into fists covered her eyes as she wept. "Who do you love more, Ron?"  
He couldn't have been more confused. "Who…what are my options?" He held her arms, pulling them away from her face.  
Hermione looked skyward. "Would you save me, Ron? Or would you save Harry?"

His eyes widened in astonishment. "I, I don't know what you mean, Hermione. I…"

She only cried harder, heart wrenching sobs that shook her back and forth. Or rather, _she_ was shaking herself back and forth.

"Do you see? You can't even answer me! I love you so much, Ron. Why would you do this to me?" Her pretty face contorted with sorrow.  
"I…Hermione, _please_…" Ron stammered. He hated seeing her like this, he was being torn up. But why?

Hermione looked dead at him.

"Tell me, Ron. Tell me who you love more. If we were to die – Harry or I – who would you save?"

Ron realized that she would only rest until she received an answer. He frowned, distraught and thought seriously.  
Harry was his brother; there was no question of that. He fought because of Harry, because Harry couldn't do it alone. Harry only had him and Hermione, really.

But Hermione was his soul. She wasn't the missing piece or the other half, she was all of it. And while he fought _because _of Harry, he fought _for _Hermione. Who would he save?  
More like who he would betray. Who would he murder and watch as they died, while the other breathed and lived on? What could one live on – a soul, or blood?

"I…I don't know," he admitted, running a frustrated hand through his hair. Hermione shook her head very slowly and very sadly.  
"I knew it," she said coldly, quietly. "You don't love me. You've played with me all this time."

Ron reached forward for her hand.

"No!" Hermione protested. "Don't you see that you're killing me?" Tears dripped slowly down her cheeks, one after the next like a funeral procession of liquid stars on a field of alabaster.

"Please!" Ron begged. Didn't she see what this was doing to _him_? He needed her. He would spend the rest of his life dying without her.

He took her left arm with gentle hand and pulled her closer. Hermione stiffened. In one fluid, controlled movement she slapped him across the face. Ron recoiled, his hand to his cheek, stunned.

"You're a murderer, Ron."

Her beautiful brown eyes were cold and shiny, like marbles. She looked at him steadily, eyes still full and brimming with unspent grief. Ron's vision swam before him; tears not from the sting of her palm, but her mordant words fought to the surface.

Whatever this was, it shouldn't be happening. Something was wrong in this little world of bright trees and shining sun. Love was hurting in this strange world, so suddenly and abruptly as a clock ticks from one second to the next. A stark difference so quick, that somehow it had crept in, beyond his control.

Love was sitting before him and sobbing and sobbing and hating him while he loved it. What had gone wrong?  
Ron reached for Hermione again; what could he change?

He grabbed her wrists before she had the chance to strike him again.

"Tell me what's wrong, Hermione."

She struggled wildly against him; her back hit the stone rock.

"You bastard! You murderer!" She sobbed even harder. "You're hurting me, Ron! You're killing me, and I loved you so much."

Ron grappled with Hermione, but didn't have the heart to hold her wrists any tighter; they would already bruise from the intensity of his grip. Hermione kicked out against him and Ron fell back. Quick as a flash Hermione grabbed her wand and pointed it at him.

Ron stood rigid. This couldn't be happening. "Let me fix this, Hermione! Why won't you let me fix it?"

A curse flew from her lips, stinging him in the chest. Before the next one could fly, he lunged forward, pulling Hermione with him, reflexes strong.  
He held her shoulders tightly.

"Please, Hermione," he entreated brokenly. "What happened?" He held her fast although she continued to fight him, refusing to answer. "Tell me where it all went wrong!"

Hermione continued to cry. "It went wrong…it all went wrong when you killed me," she whispered.

Ron shook her with frustration. "I would _never_ do that to you, Hermione…" She shut her eyes tight so that she couldn't see him.

He shook her harder amidst her cries. All he could remember was shaking her, over and over and over again and he barely noticed when her hand rose to hold his cheek. Not a slap, but a caress.

"How long will you remember me?" she questioned. Her hand fell away.  
"Hermione?" he breathed. She was silent. "_Hermione_?" he shouted fearfully. His eyes widened at what he had done. Erratically, he pulled her close and held her tight, rocking back and forth, crying and whispering her name.

It was dark when Harry swooped down in front of him.

"Why are you still here, Ron?" asked the black-haired boy. "It's been dark for a long time."  
Ron never let go of Hermione's lifeless body. "I've killed her, Harry," he rasped.

Harry walked forward and patted his friend's shoulder; face sympathetic. "How long will you remember her?"

* * *

Sweat.

Dripping from every pore on his body. Awareness.

"Ron?"

His world lurched. Vertigo spun around and around and rocked back and forth.

Hermione.

The memories came back…

Ron pushed Harry away and ran to the bathroom, lighting his wand. Harry followed his friend worriedly and heard the sounds of retching issuing from one of the toilets. He got a damp cloth and handed it awkwardly to a distraught Ron.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

Ron took the cloth and wiped his mouth distractedly, but didn't answer. He only placed his forehead on the smooth tile of the floor. It was cold like marble and shiny when the light from his wand hit it, gleaming like the sun.

* * *

The silverware clinked loudly on the gold plates, erratic but familiar. Every night, the forks and knives clacked their chiming melodies on plates and in bowls and sometimes on glasses. To some, it blended in smoothly with the rest of the din because it had always been that way.

To Ron, it sounded like glass shattering, scraping its way through the air before falling back onto the plates only to rise with unearthly screams once more.

Hermione watched him from across the table. He wasn't eating. He wasn't hungry. He hadn't been hungry for days.

"Harry," she whispered.

Harry should not have heard her with all of the noise surrounding him, but he too was watching his best friend. It was easier to notice things like whispers when one just sat and watched.

Harry did not say anything, did not turn his eyes from the unruly strands of red across from him. He only tilted his head slightly toward Hermione.

"I know that something is wrong. Why won't you tell me?" she asked quietly. Her eyes were facing her plate. Her fork rose to her mouth after her sentence. The utensil found its way inside of her mouth without her really knowing how. It was necessary for her to pretend that everything was fine – at least for now.

"I can't," Harry said almost inaudibly. Ron heard every word.

Hermione's eyes narrowed momentarily at the black-haired boy before falling on Ron. Suddenly they seemed large and inviting, suddenly so warm and confused and concerned for him, that he forced himself to look away from her. He didn't deserve her.

"Ron."

What? Why was she nagging him all of the time? He liked looking at his silverware, he liked looking anywhere but her.

She smiled disarmingly. "Are you unwell?"

He looked around the room absently, at anyone but her. "No," he said evenly.

Her brow furrowed like it had every night at supper for what seemed like a thousand nights. "You haven't eaten anything yet – more less mine or Harry's."

She was joking with him. She did it so _rarely_. He loved it.

Ron shrugged. "I s'pose I'm not hungry."

A trembling, tripping silence dripped upon them.

"Thank you for the elaboration, Ron!" she burst suddenly. When she saw that she had startled him, she shook her head, her hair falling into her face. "Oh please, you're never _not_ hungry! Not until recently. But _Harry_ won't tell me why."

The black-haired boy began to protest, but Hermione silenced him. "Why do I feel like I'm being left out? What did I do wrong?"

Ron looked away.

"Ron! Please tell me! I'll help any way that I can." Her lips turned up slightly. "You _know_ that I will. You know that I…that we – Harry and I – love you."

Harry stared at Ron. He had been hoping that Hermione would eventually ask Ron what was troubling him. He had discovered that there was something between them. Hermione had her own spell cast around Ron that manipulated him; not even Harry held that magic.

And Harry was hopeful when Ron gazed at looked up at him. His mouth moved jerkily, trying to find the words to say…but then he looked at Hermione. And he stopped.

"I'm fine," he said.

Hermione reached for his hand but Ron he snatched it back, as if she had tried to burn him. She looked utterly bewildered and broken, as her face crumpled.

"Stop it!" he shouted.  
Harry frowned. "Ron…"  
"Don't say anything!" His voice sounded unusually pitiful despite the harsh tone he'd desired.

"I'm tired."

He rose from the table.

"I'm going to bed."

Hermione shook with censored sobs as he turned away from her. Harry went to pat her on the shoulder but Hermione withdrew.

"Don't you touch me!" she cried.

She fled the confusing scene, presumably to Gryffindor Tower, knocking into Ron as she went. He watched her go. Harry came up beside him.

"I'm sorry," the red-headed boy said. Harry didn't say anything.

* * *

Ron's regression stemmed from everything that was Hermione. Her cat; her books, her voice.  
Her scent…it seemed to trail him everywhere he went, inescapable with its ever lingering tendrils. Aromatic long after arriving.

So, although she and Harry thought that he was unaware of their presence, he knew that they sat on the rock only a few paces behind him.

The three of them had not talked properly in a few days. Ron ceased showing up to dinner in order to avoid more scenes and tension. He was withdrawn and disconsolate in class – never speaking to Hermione, speaking rarely to Harry. He sneaked glances at Hermione before addressing Harry as if asking her permission. None of them knew why.

He took to going outside a lot.  
He liked sitting under the shade of trees. Only trees could make one feel at home and humble, while at the same time make one feel daring. It was the covering of darkness that inspired that sensation, and castles – even Hogwarts – could not duplicate it. Castles were full of overly-dramatic grandeur. There was no humility in them.

He let his mind drift to his best friends. "I'm sorry, Harry," he imagined Hermione saying. They all were.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Harry," she began.  
Harry tried to summon up a smile. "I am too."

They were quiet for a little. And then –

"Will you tell me what's going on with him now?"  
Harry shook his head. "I know you don't believe me," he started, "but I don't know anything either. I'd tell you if I did, Hermione. There isn't any question of that."  
"Yes there is!" she argued. "You two have always had your secrets, but not when it matters. Don't you see that this matters, Harry? There's something eating away at Ron, and I wish I could say that I had seen it from afar. But I haven't, Harry. I don't understand anything right now. It's as if something crept over him, something making him seem so…so _dead_. And I can't help but feel that you know something."

Harry remained silent.

"How has he been at night?" she wheedled.

At that, Harry looked up. "He's not sleeping well," he said slowly, pushing his fringe away. "He starts off well enough – like usual. Then…then he starts talking…"  
Hermione's eyes brightened for the first time in days. "What does he say?"  
"I wish I knew! It's mostly moaning and all I can ever make out is 'please' and 'wrong'. And 'sorry'."

Her eyes muted a little. "Is that all?"

Harry shook his head. "Two nights ago – after our row at dinner – he said something new. He said, 'Forever.'"

A leaf descended from under Ron's tree and fell into his lap.

"I don't know what that means," Hermione admitted sadly, watching him.

Ron Weasley, Gryffindor seventh-year, had yet to know either.

* * *

It was a merry fire. There were sparkling blues and reds and golds and always the hated maroons.

He had been sitting in the same chair for the past few hours, so that when he noticed her sitting in the window seat he was surprised to find it so dark outside already.

She was right there, silhouetted in the dark like a beautiful dream.

"Do you…do you want to sit next to me?"

Ron's eyes cleared and focused. His cheek itched and he wiped it with the back of his hand. It came away wet. Had he been crying?

He was not going to go to her. He was going to walk away. He'd planned it! Merlin, he'd planned it a thousand times…but it was complicated. Leaving would be the last shovel of moist earth upon their coffins. But staying was…staying was somehow the same.

"Harry isn't here so we can talk – just the two of us. Do you see him outside with his broom? I saw him leave the common room about a half hour ago, but I don't think he's flying yet or else we would have seen him from here. I suppose he's walking around… So you can sit here, if you want, and we can talk. Or we can just sit here and not say anything at all…"

A babbling Hermione blushed.  
Ron considered that flushing of her skin, the crowding of blood to her cheeks. She was so alive. He walked over to the small space next to Hermione and sat.

After at least five minutes passed without either of them breathing a word, Hermione spontaneously took Ron's hand. He went as stiff as a gravestone.

"Is it that bad?" asked Hermione, with lidded eyes.

Her hands were strangely cold, probably from sitting near the window for so long, and when they made contact with his, Ron felt as if he had been shocked.

"No, no it isn't."

Hermione smiled shyly. "Good."

He stared at her, wanting her so badly that he thought he would go mad. She was offering herself to him, and while he would have liked to reciprocate, there was something holding him back. There was this feeling…somewhere distant in his mind, or his heart, telling him that simply touching her was wrong.

He would hurt her, and they would all suffer for it.

"Are you afraid of me?" she whispered.  
He looked at their joined hands. "Yes."  
"Why?"

The answer came to him immediately.

"Because I don't want to lose you."  
"You don't have me yet, Ron."

The voice in his mind was screaming at him; tearing through the folds of his brain like Rage personified. It was scraping behind his retinas. '**_You'll bleed her!_**' it seethed. _'**You'll use her for all that she can give you, and when she's empty, you'll-**'_

_Scraping, and digging and tearing_ –

He took her hand and held it for all he was worth.  
That was the chance he had taken. He had embraced her then, and kissed her softly, sealing a part of fate and closing a gate of time, though many would try to open it again.

Harry swooped through the air outside in the darkness; the silver moon was a constant in the night sky.

* * *

Sweat.

He ducked beside a rock only to have it blasted apart and fall to pieces atop his back. Curses flitted through the air like messenger birds trying to reach their destination faster than another.

Across the field he saw Harry lift his wand and immobilize another Death Eater. Throwing his own hex at an approaching black robed figure, Ron watched at it hit its intended target. The target fell, and the white mask clattered to the ground beside it.

The lake ebbed and flowed fiercer than usual from the magical undercurrent in the air, and finally Ron met Harry's eye. With a jerk of his own black robes, he signaled for Harry to make his way over to him. It was dangerous, but necessary.

Harry seemed to flutter like sheaves of parchment or feathers in a fire, and he sparked right in front of his friend.

"Yeah?" he panted, putting up a shield.

There were enough aurors to make up for their absence; however as the number of Death Eaters dwindled, their recklessness and impulsiveness increased. Their objective was to take down as many aurors as possible, if they were going to be taken down themselves.

Ron wasted no time getting to the point. "This has to end soon. We're holding up well, but everyone is tiring out."

Harry nodded, looking around. Voldemort's minions had also taken to hiding behind the pillars around the castle. Ron silently cursed all of the hidden alcoves and dark spots around Hogwarts, although he remotely remembered cherishing them when he was with a certain brown-haired girl.

"Right," Harry said. "But where's Hermione?"

Ron looked up at an obscure window alongside the stone fortress.

"She's inside helping out. I told her that I didn't want her to come out."  
"Why?" Harry asked. "Hermione can take care of herself just as well as we can."  
"Of course she can!" Ron whispered fiercely. "And she'd probably help us out a lot too, but…" he cut himself off.  
"But what?"  
His eyes clouded over. "I've been having these dreams for the past few nights. And I haven't had them in such a long time…"  
"What are they about?"  
Ron looked dazed momentarily, and then he shook his head. "Nothing, really…they just give me a bad feeling…"  
Harry nodded, albeit reluctantly. "At least she's safe."

Bright flashes of color lit up the sky, and Harry emerged from the safe covering, Ron right after him.

"Ron…" he said, green eyes anxious, but bright as ever. "I'm going after him."

Ron stared. He felt as if he should make a move toward his best friend; embrace him in the event that he'd never get to again…

"I'll see you later, Harry," he said quietly.  
Harry paused before nodding. "Later, then." He looked up at the castle and swallowed. "Tell Hermione when you see her that I –"

Ron grinned a bit and slapped Harry on the back. "You can tell her yourself."

Harry nodded and smiled, and went off into the darkness.

The red-head went back into the thick of the fighting.

'It's almost over,' he thought. Out of nowhere a red beam buzzed past his ear, grazing the skin. It was a shallow wound, but he could feel warm blood trickling down his neck.

Turning quickly, Ron saw an unrecognizable man in black.

"Coward," he said. "Only one of _you_ would begin a duel with your opponent's back turned."

The man bowed in acknowledgement of the insult.

"You Gryffindor and your honor code…" he said. He put his hand to his face and Ron raised his wand.  
"No, no," said Draco, when the mask was in his hands. "You wouldn't want to hit me when I'm not ready, would you?" He threw the mask aside. "I know how long you've been waiting for this, Weasley."  
Ron smirked. "For once you're right in one."

The pair circled each other, appraising the others wounds and stance.

"The Dark Lord has something special planned for you and your mudblood," said Draco calmly.  
Ron tensed. "Does he?"  
"Of course. It's similar to what he has planned for Potter."  
"As long as it's not the same one Harry had for your father," he snapped.

Draco stopped for a second. Lucius Malfoy had died two years previously – two years after they had graduated. And it was at Harry's wandpoint.

The battle began from there.

Ron gave as much as he got and soon found himself breathing far too heavily for it to be normal. There were gashes across his face and his robes were torn and bloody. Draco did not look much better, though.

Suddenly an explosion rocked the atmosphere, and a high pitched sound screeched through the air. Draco and Ron looked at the place where Voldemort and Harry had been, and saw a pale, thin figure about to collapse from exhaustion. Voldemort was dead.

Ron laughed. "It's over, Malfoy!"

But it was not.

Draco threw one last Stunner at Ron, but the redhead deflected it back.  
The image of standing over his nemesis's body would be implanted in his mind forever. How could one forget the path of blood as it seeped and crawled out of another human's body? He would never forget the tiny spark of surprise he felt at seeing Draco's blood drip away, red like his own.

Ron stepped closer to Draco's side while the pale-haired boy expired; too young to be a man, too bitter to be a child.

Ron's eyes were fixed on his victim, but it was not the other way around. Draco's quickly dilating orbs were fixed on a point beyond Ron. Ron wondered if he was seeing the afterlife.

"What is it, Malfoy?" Ron asked cruelly. "Fancy a look round before you die?"

Draco would have liked to laugh, but his throat was closing quickly. "Sure," he whispered. "Constant vigilance, Weasley." He died.

Ron looked over his shoulder just in time to see another black figure descending on him and a flash of silver. Without thinking, his wand was pointed at the person and a curse flew from his lips. The figure in the black robes fell predictably, and with only the smallest of cries.

Only, how familiar her cries always sounded…

"Oh, god."

Ron ran over and pulled the hood back, and saw a beautiful face.

"No."

His love's white face.

_Murderer. You're a murderer, Ron._

With a strangled cry of pure despair he threw himself at her body.

"Why?"

_Do you want to sit next to me?_

"They didn't need me anymore," Hermione whispered.

If it had been lighter outside, her face would have appeared paler than the new moon. But ensconced in the night as they were, she looked strangely shadowy; like the things we are all afraid of in the dark.

"I wanted to help…" She began to cry.

"Shhh, 'Mione," he said, the tears streaking down his own face, though he tried to prevent them. He bent and kissed her cheeks softly. "You're fine."

_What had gone wrong in the span of just a few seconds?_

"Ron," she said faintly.

He tried to tell her with his eyes, of his sorrow and his regret, but she wasn't hearing him. Her body convulsed on the ground as if to blame him and condemn him with every jerk. But her eyes were pure forgiveness. She grabbed his hand and held it fast.

"Who do you love, Ron?" Hermione asked.

His tears were dripping into the folds of her old Hogwarts robes, and rolling over the shining metal of her Head Girl badge. He cradled her in his arms and rocked her back and forth.

"You, Hermione. Of course you," he spoke.

She smiled while he swayed. It was easy to be content when he was holding her. Ron's love had never been still, but it had always been strong and passionate. And constant.

"I love you. Ron."

He kissed her eyes and hands with his own eyes closed. He tried to breathe warmth into her body like lovers breathe dreams into each others souls. He rocked for a long time, burying his face into the folds of her chestnut hair, but the time came when she did not feel it anymore.

He did not know when Harry came to sit beside him. And he did not hear when Harry began to cry.

All Ron felt was the wetness of his tears as he touched his cheek to hers, and the damp spot where his curse hit her in the heart.

* * *

Sweat.  
Ron jerked into an upright sitting position. His breathing was heavy and erratic. The sofa squealed miserably.

"Ron?"  
He threw himself forward onto the soft cushions, shaking.

"Are you all right?"  
He felt like vomiting. Or screaming, or pulling his hair out. He felt like dying.

Harry stood over Ron in the dark room of the flat they shared. "You Dreamed again, didn't you?"

Ron sniffed and sat up slowly.

"I was so close this time," he whispered.

Harry's sad green-eyes dimmed until they appeared black. "Ron –"

"No! I was so _fucking_ close this time!"

Harry shook his head mournfully. "You always are."

Ron looked at his best friend's drawn face. A few wrinkles marred Harry's once smooth visage, though the youth was still there. The years of rounding up remaining Death Eaters had taken a toll on him – on the both of them. Strands of grey hair threaded through both of their heads. Where had the time gone?

"You've got to stop this. Stop torturing yourself over what happened; it wasn't your fault."

Ron glared. "Then whose was it? You didn't see; you weren't there until…" he tapered off.

"I saw enough to feel enough!" Harry shouted angrily. "Don't you see how it's destroying you?"

The sofa creaked on old springs as Ron rose. "Have _you_ forgotten Cedric?" he shouted. Harry reddened. "Or Sirius or Hagrid. Or Dumbledore? And you stand there and ask me to forget her! She was most important Harry! She was…"

"I'm not asking you to forget her! I'm asking you – _begging_ you to get past it, to forgive yourself –"

Ron looked away.

"I MISS HER TOO!" Harry screamed. "BUT YOU CAN'T LOOK AT **ME**?! I didn't need to see it _happen_! I saw her body! I saw her…laying on the ground…her face…her blood…!"

"**SHUT UP**!" Glass and bowls and knives broke and crashed onto the floor as Ron threw them around. "JUST SHUT UP!"

The dark-haired man stared at his friend, his counterpart and wondered where it had all gone sour. In a flash of silver and a flash of magic, what had held them together was dissolving, melting away. And he did not know how to get it back.

The sound of crickets chirping and magical animals running amok was strong in the thick, heavy air outside of their little flat. They should have been out there, all three of them. Even if it was only her scent, her essence that floated along with them. But life had chosen him, and life had erased her, though Ron refused to let her fade.

"I can't sit here watching you at this anymore, Ron. Yes, you've come close. You come closer every night. You can Dream into the past to try and manipulate what has happened. You can try to send nightmares of the future to your younger self, but it's futile, and above all else, it's wrong! You're not that seventh-year boy anymore, and you can't scare him from the woman he loved! Time…time is funny that way, Ron. It comes and leaves us, bringing what we love, only to take it away from us. And it's taken her. She's gone, Ron."

Harry put his hand on his best-friend's shoulder. Ron looked at him so barrenly, but adversely, so full of pain, that he remembered all of those nights long before. At dinner when a red-headed seventeen-year-old had pushed him away, and pushed _her_ away, all because of dreams that he was having. And they had told him he had no reason to be afraid.  
But they had been wrong.

Ron shrugged Harry's hand off sharply. He bent down to pick up the dropped pieces of silverware and books, trinkets and potions that had spilled and dripped away.

"She has gone, Harry. But only for now." He sat on the bed and held himself, as if he thought that _her_ arms were wrapped around him. He turned away and faced the window. "I'm starting again. If you aren't going to help…you should leave."

Harry watched his friend with a heavy heart.

He wished that all three of them could fly away together. But there was no magic strong enough to fly the dead and two broken souls. His best friend's pain would last forever.

The door clicked as Harry exited the dark, little room, leaving Ron crouched upon his bed, eyes closed, breathing ragged.

Ron reached into his dreams and poked far, far beyond what was in the moment. He went back to the sunny Hogwarts days and calm, rippling lakes – and to Hermione. He told himself that he could change what happened, even if it came at the risk of never having known her love.

He would continue his efforts because the plague in his mind would never allow him to cease. Neither would the constant dimming and rising of her light, her smell, and the endless ticking that was the persistence of her memory.

* * *

Please review.

- Femme


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